"That makes sense", you said, after I told you. I don't know why I remembered it today, five years later, trying not to focus on the couple that was kissing by the fountain. Maybe it is because the man had your eyes, but more likely, it is because memories happen sometimes, in the seeming randomness of this world, to appear at uncalled for moments, like migraines.
Murphy's Law, they call it, and start spewing facts about umbrellas. I remember the time I threw up on your shirt, and you cried, and afterwards, I could never understand how you still wanted me - not till years later, lying in bed and listening to my boyfriend pee.
He peed fast, and afterwards his hands were crawling down my neck, and I could not breathe. I wondered if it would have been like this, with you, if we had tried. I thanked God that we never did.
I thanked God for many things, like flower-petals beaded with rain, and the grey of morning right after sunrise, on cold days. I used to thank God for giving me you. Now I have slid you over, into the asking part of prayers, a silent whisper that the hurt will unglue itself from the crevices beween me, but then, would I dissasemble into fragments: opal-studded clay next to peices of pictures of naked statues, cracks that jut against your fingers when you try to hold the shards?
Is it better to be broken than to be wholly alone?
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